


Don't Give Up

by Rachrar



Category: Hetalia - Fandom
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-04 21:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/398152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rachrar/pseuds/Rachrar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I am just a state, a nation of ideals made my men whose lives pass in a flicker, and yet, my life is in their hands. Why should I stay me, Alfred, when it would be so much easier to be America?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Give Up

I am a country– no, that isn't the right word, it implies the people within. I am a nationality– not, that too is wrong, it implies ethnicity. I am a state. Yes, an autonomous collection of ideals organized into government. I am that state; I live, I breathe, I eat, I sleep. I feel emotion, and I have a name too, but it matters not. I am not here to live as a human would, I am here to serve my leader, male or female, king, president, or prime minister, whatever ruler they see fit to lead the masses. I exist to personify the ideals of the men who created me and to demonstrate the health of the state as a whole. When I grow ill, the state is at risk, and I must be saved, lest I, and my citizens, die.

I am a state– I do not die as men do. Grievous wounds given by individual men may hurt me, and cause me pain, but no single man may tear me down. I will not fade away until my states break apart and my flag no longer flies proudly before the sinking and rising sun. It is many years off, I am sure, but it is a terrible feeling; to know that no matter what I do, my life is not in my hands. I was created by men and I shall be destroyed by men. My life has been short compared to others, I am yet young, but I have seen generations pass before me, my strength only growing in the past hundred years til even the greatest of nations does not balk at obtaining my assistance.

I am a state– blond hair, blue eyes, tall frame, wiry muscles, dashing, intelligent, none of it matters. My appearance only reflects my state, my intelligence demonstrating the stereotypes, my name my only individuality. I exist only to show the health of the country, not to feel or touch, even when the one whom I mirror so closely longs for me I as I long for him.

I am a feeling state– a creature made from men's thoughts and dreams. I was created when the first wisp of a rebellion caught fire in British men's hearts, the idea so very strong and such a distinct possibility that I grew. Nations that are made, but then broken, fade away with time, painlessly and calmly, but with piercing knowledge that they will not have any sort of recompense for their deeds.

I am a feeling state– I feel each battle upon my land as a personal attack, each belief of my citizen's within my psyche somewhere. I am not my own to control, I am merely a tool of the country. Patriotic, rebellious, scandalous, progressive, conservative, rocker, hippie, gothic, emo. Simple words with complex identities, whatever is the majority is that which I am. My nation, at this moment, is conservative but progressing. I have a non-white president, and gay marriage is going to the Supreme Court, but the vast majority of my citizens are white, Christian, straight, conservative, and resistant to both taxes and change.

I am a longing state– I have gone through many wars, aided by those who would then become my enemies. The Revolution, a period of time where I felt most keenly, but my say did not matter. I had to fight him, he that gave me the knowledge to become great, he that mirrors me so. Our attire was not so different, blue and red against one another when we both knew in our hearts that both colors were our own. I fought alongside my other brother, the man who so eagerly plays the sexually driven fool so easily that one would almost believe it of him. Though his price for aid was high, I could not refuse; freedom would cry out in affront if pride did not bend to popular will, and his help was sorely needed. If I had refused, I would not have become the nation I am today.

I am a longing state– the Civil War had to be the worst. Then, I truly did fight myself, the Confederate States had their own state, much like myself. Too much like myself. Blue eyes, tall, thin, but he lacked the wisp of hair upon my head, instead, he wore glasses. Such odd glasses, I had always thought, without an upper rim. I wear them now as a testament to my great inner turmoil, watching as he crumbled under my blows, my musket discharging into his heart so cleanly I felt it pierce my own. In the end, he fell before me, spectacle falling to the muddied ground as he melted away into the dust of thought; defeated traitors do not live, but those who manage to separate and survive, do. He did not live.

I am a hurting state– I grasp my heart now even at the thought, feeling the conservative state rest upon the bridge of my nose. It grows heavy when I think of he whom mirrors me almost perfectly, reminding me that such a feeling is against my citizens' wish, reminding me that, however much I feel, however much I love and long, I cannot. I am merely that which displays a living gauge of my nation, and while the emotions I feel and the urging of the nation may be in conflict for a while, the popular vote always wins.

I am a hurting state– I remember his words, even to this day, "No... I cannot harm that which I love. But promise me this as a state I find myself equal to; do not give up your name." Such simple words, spoken in the strictest confidence a battlefield can give, the raindrops falling all about and hiding his words from the army behind myself, those green hues entreating me to feel as he felt when he gazed up to me– But I cannot, for such is not the will of the people. My nation was built upon democracy, freedom, liberty, and equality, but I am a state. I am not a human, those inalienable rights do not apply to myself.

I am a growing state– even now, my power grows with mere fear. Great nations, nations that dwarf myself, nations that with but one blow can send me careening, nations that can bring up their army and crush me, even they fear me. In the international meetings, my vote is always the loudest within the small room, it is my voice that carries, it is my voice that represents my nation, even when my own views are different from that of my people. I speak of heroism, of the joy of capitalism, of the equality and tolerance my nation affords. And I lie.

I am a growing state– I feel the lies sting as they creep past my tongue and escape my lips. Equality for all, bah, what did the men who write that know? Those men, those mere mortal men, they had slaves, they had crazy uncles in closets, and gay lovers in their beds. But it was not openly discussed, it was not even secretly discussed. It is as if it never was. Fools to think that their short life is enough time to decide what would made a great nation, perfect morons to believe that their opinion trumps my own. I, who know the feeling of each individual of my country beating inside my breast, each small voice in my mind pushing, pulling me this way and that. They walk about like ants, unknowing of the greater world beyond themselves.

I am a fearful state– I feel the influence of the masses corrupting my mind, changing my very ideals. Equality? No, let there be rich and poor. Tolerance? No, let the black men be hung, the gays shot. Religious freedom? No, let the witches burn. Liberty? No, for when you are born, you may operate only within a small sphere, but in that sphere of opportunity. Pursuit of Happiness? Yes, for those who are rich may pursue it with all haste and eat it all up before the poverty-stricken may get but halfway there, their needs unmet, their stomachs empty, their wants, hopes, dreams, all ignored.

I am a fearful state– this love which I feel, I must cast it out. I cannot allow the feelings to consume me as they did so long ago, I am older now, and I must have more restraint. That nation's eyes when he took his due, his own pay for aiding me in the war; he was amused to truly have my beautiful country begging for his assistance. Did it please you, Brother? Was I all that you hoped? The memory of that sparkle in your hues said I was. It said I was that and more. To feel was not my duty then, merely to allow pride to bend before my country fell. I had felt unneeded, unwanted, and I felt I had to get away, but then I saw his eyes. Those glowing green hues staring at me across the battlefield, daring me to make a move, asking what I would do now.

I am an accepting state– I have accepted my fate as a country, as the metaphor of my leader's whims. When he demands that my will bend before the will of the masses, my waist folds and my head lowers to face the ground at my feet. Still lower, he demands, and my knees bend of his violation. My knees touch the ground hard, and I know that I will bruise. His words pass my lips; "I need your assistance."

I am an accepting state– when I stand once more, I do not brush off my trousers, I do not indicate anything. My eyes are dead and my heroism falters before the pity in those emeralds. He knows how I feel, he knows the struggle to remain a true personality, a thinking, sentient individual in this cruel mockery of life given to the states. I cannot help but notice that the green of his uniform matches his eyes, and I twitch in reaction to the protest driving my nation to the polls. His eyes flicker sadness, but I ignore it as I leave with his answer.

I am a dying state– I am sick, I lay fevered within my bed. He sits at my bedside, eyes full of the knowledge that the nation which he fought against, the nation which he loves, the nation which he raised, is dying like so many others that come and go. My head spins with numbers, images of battle within a desert state flashing through my dreams. Corruption drives my rich, starvation my poor. Heroism can only go so far when I have no ability to do anything; I owe other countries so much that my credibility is dwindling. The nation which I crippled and helped in the war past now aids me, his black hair shining in the light, his brown eyes unassuming. The nation with which I once allied with now stands against me, his purple hues wide with innocent cruelty, his state mocking the demise of my own. It was so cold then, so very cold that the memory makes me shiver.

I am a dying state– the towers fell, my economy has failed, useless pornography and instant gratification my new symbol, rather than the noble eagle. Citizen's petition for their rights but demand a weakened government, push for state rights though that issue was decided when I defeated myself. Even now, green eyes do not judge, merely wait and hope.

I am a dead state– I sit before my nation's original capital, the greatest city in my country, and I pose for a photograph. I pull myself together, pull my flag closer to my body with the urging of the photographer, I push the gun at my feet away. Smoke billows behind me, but I dare not look, lest I see my fate rushing to me and I realize that my heroism has failed me, replaced with cowardice. Let my death meet me in the back, much like the will of the terrorists who brought this to my attention, the knife in my back aching so deeply that my very bones, my foundation itself unravels. But I cannot focus on that. I must smile just so, turn at an angle like that, yes, to get the correct view of the proud country. Fire bursts in the background with a hail of gunfire, rapid clicking meeting my ears, but I block it out along with the thok of the helicopter. If anything I learned from you stuck, Big Bro, it was this: Meet all failure with poise, and greet mistakes with confidence, for it is not how you think or how you act that defines you. It is the method of which you choose to die.

I hope I made you proud, Big Bro. My hour is at hand, and my smile still does not waver, even as I feel the flag slip through my fingers, the gun melt through my foot, and my vision blurs. I hope I grew up enough to make you feel the same about me as I did about you. But now, I have advice, for once. Don't forget me, and don't give in, because once you do, you can never get your name back. I die as the United States of America, not Alfred F. Jones. And I hope you can forgive me for that.


End file.
